


Smoke and Mirrors

by MVforVictory



Category: iKON (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Bobby-centric - Freeform, Drugs, Hanbin left iKON, M/M, Miscommunication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, This gets worse before it gets better, YG is a slimeball, but was put back in, expect painfully slow updates, friends to lovers to strangers to bandmates to.....well, gratuitous mythology references, hanbin-centric, how could i forget that one, not between double b
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29577288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MVforVictory/pseuds/MVforVictory
Summary: As far as he was concerned, Hanbin was never a part of the group. Hanbin wasn’t the person Bobby remembered from their trainee days, the one that laughed too loud when Jinhwan was scolding them, or shoved an entire slice of watermelon in his mouth to cheer Junhoe up when he was down.Hanbin wasn’t the same person he was then.But that was fine, because neither was Bobby.Or,Hanbin left after losing WIN—Years later, YG decided that KEMiSTRY just didn't have what they need to succeed.They needed a producer, a rapper, and a leader.A new beginning.A change Hanbin and Bobby struggle to adapt to, with rising animosity and secrets buried under years of scars, but they find their way through the smoke. They always do.“I thought I wanted this without you, but when you’re gone, it’s like I can’t breathe.”
Relationships: Kim Hanbin | B.I/Kim Jiwon | Bobby, Kim Hanbin | B.I/Song Minho | Mino
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	Smoke and Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> hello, it's been a while?  
> i just want to preface this with...this is more of a tester than anything. some of y'all may remember that i used to write almost exclusively for iKON, but fell out after the scandal.  
> this story has been planned for two years now, and i'm only now posting it. the story has been outlined since before the scandal, which is what made it feel so much crazier to write, looking back on it.  
> if this does well enough, if enough people genuinely would like to see this, i'll do my best to make that happen. 
> 
> and thank you, Run, for being the reason this story even existed in the first place
> 
> with that, i guess we should just get right into it?  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As far as he was concerned, Hanbin was never a part of the group. Hanbin wasn’t the person Bobby remembered from their trainee days, the one that laughed too loud when Jinhwan was scolding them, or shoved an entire slice of watermelon in his mouth to cheer Junhoe up when he was down.
> 
> Hanbin wasn’t the same person he was then.
> 
> But that was fine, because neither was Bobby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for rape/non-con in this chapter

I loved you as Icarus loved the sun— 

too close.

too much.

* * *

♤♤♤

* * *

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Hanbin shut the sink off.

He had less than three minutes to be present in the office Yang Hyunsuk often used when here before he would be considered late, but Hanbin didn’t want to entertain any thought as to what that could mean for him.

Everything felt far away, the sound of water droplets still echoed in his ears but Hanbin shook them off, steeling his nerves in preparation for what he knew would be a tense meeting. There was a vague sense of regret, deep, deep down. Hanbin figured early on that partying with Mino and his crew of underground rappers would get him in trouble, but he found he didn’t care much.

He had nothing left to lose.

The company had put him on an indefinite hiatus since his last scandal, one shared with both Mino and Zico—due to a bar fight that he had had absolutely nothing to do with, yet somehow ended up caught in the middle.

Just like he always was.

_143 seconds. Go._

The hallways of YG’s subsidiary company had always felt more like a prison than a workplace, a labyrinth that Hanbin wished to get lost in, forever.

Holed away, left with only himself and his music.

That was all he wanted, all he needed.

Hanbin knocked on the door.

_“Come in.”_

That voice was one of many that haunted his dreams, kept him lying awake at night replaying each mistake he had made from that day, from that year, from his entire career. There were so many, too many.

Walking into the dimly lit office felt harder than it ever had. There was a tension in the air that Hanbin couldn’t yet identify, but it was painfully obvious as soon as he pushed past the heavy wood. All he could feel was dread.

“I’m sorry I’m late, sir,” Hanbin bowed, keeping his eyes down and voice flat, exactly like he had been conditioned to do. 

The man at the desk _tsked_ at him, obviously displeased with Hanbin’s lateness, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. There was little Hanbin could do that would put a smile on his boss’ face, he had learned, and each option made his stomach turn in disgust.

But Hanbin was no better than Yang was, he’s stepped on people to get to where he needed to be, used and abused the trust of far too many to please the man, and that made him feel sick.

“I’ve already told you that I don’t appreciate tardiness, B.I, yet you consistently show that you have little regard for other people. Time is very precious,” Yang drawled, “Blink and you’ll miss everything.”

“Yes, sir,” Hanbin bowed once more, knowing there was little point in arguing with the man that controlled his future, “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

He straightened up, lifting his eyes from the ground to meet the narrowed set trained on him.

“Now, now. We all know you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” Yang mocked, and the taunt only served to put Hanbin more on edge, “You should know better than to keep us waiting.”

“Us?”

“Yes, and I must say that I’m rather shocked you hadn’t noticed, with the way you’ve been stared at for the past few minutes,” Yang grinned, sharp and _dangerous,_ before his gaze lazily drifted towards the opposite end of the office from where Hanbin was standing, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Bobby-ssi.”

_Bobby?_

Hanbin whipped around, ears ringing just from that one word bouncing around his head and echoing through.

What was Bobby doing here?

Their eyes remained locked, Bobby looked equal parts confused and disgusted at Hanbin’s appearance, but Hanbin couldn’t imagine the sneer he could feel etched on his face looked much better.

“And here I was, under the impression that the two of you were friends,” Yang started, “Or would I be wrong?”

The words caught in his throat. Hanbin knew how Mr. Yang felt about being _wrong,_ about things not going his way.

“Just haven’t…talked…in a while,” Bobby stuttered out, still not breaking their locked gaze.

_Just haven’t talked in a while._

That was an understatement.

It’s been years since Hanbin has even seen Bobby in person, longer yet since they’ve talked.

Hanbin finally snapped his head away, keeping his gaze low as he clenched his fists. He felt tense, _loaded,_ ready to go off like a gun. A bullet in the crossfire.

This wasn’t something he thought of much, only in the dark of his room when he woke up shaking from nightmares did he think of Bobby. Of _Jiwon._

Hanbin hasn’t spoken to Bobby since leaving the group they once had together, the group Hanbin ruined.

“Hanbin-ah,” Yang called, and Hanbin couldn’t help his glare at the name, “I have a proposition for you.”

Everything Yang did, he did with the goal of getting himself ahead of others. He knew that he was keeping both Hanbin and Bobby on edge, dangling words over their heads before pulling the trigger.

“As I’m sure you know, you aren’t currently the best viewed in the eyes of the media.”

That was also an understatement.

A recent report had dubbed Hanbin as someone that _‘doesn’t play well with others,’_ and they weren’t exactly wrong.

Yang’s eyes sharpened, “Should you deny this opportunity, I’m afraid there won’t be much more I can do to save your career as an idol, nor will there be a position open for you to remain here as a producer.”

He was being offered an ultimatum. Listen, or _leave._

The option to ask for time to debate whatever words would come next didn’t exist. He knew he needed to be ready for whatever the man would pull at any moment, but he always found himself in way over his head.

“Sit,” Yang ordered.

Hanbin took the seat across from the man, one he was all too familiar with.

_‘You’ve got such a mouth on you, boy.’_

No, none of that now. He didn’t have time for that.

The smirk on the man’s face grew sharper at Hanbin’s willing submission, and that’s what it was. Hanbin taking that seat kept him from being able to look down on him, just another thing Yang didn’t take kindly to.

“As I’m sure you’ve seen, Bobby-ssi’s group KEMiSTRY hasn’t been faring too well with the general public. I believe it would be beneficial for _everyone_ that we reconcile whatever problems have presented themselves here—”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Hanbin saw Bobby’s shoulders tense at the words, nails digging into his palms as he leaned forward in his chair.

Hanbin understood. He was sure there was already blood pooling in the crescent-shaped cuts on his own hands.

“—In an effort to reintroduce Hanbin-ssi back into the group—”

“We’re doing fine on our own,” Bobby argued back, “We don’t need him.”

Wrong move.

“Bobby-ssi, please understand that the only thing I tolerate less than tardiness is being interrupted,” Yang smiled, the same sharp grin that tore Hanbin to pieces, “Now, if you would listen. Your group has far too much potential for you six to be wasting it as you are.”

The words weren’t even directed at him but Hanbin could practically feel the disappointment weaved into that single sentence.

“But what would we gain from _him?”_

Yang laughed. Hanbin felt sick.

“Well, think about what you are lacking. Think about how you fail in comparison to him.”

Hanbin tensed up, feeling Bobby’s glare settle on him. He knew this game, this was how Yang got in your head, how he made you hate little details about yourself, question your capabilities.

Bobby was a better rapper, Hanbin would admit that in a heartbeat, but his personal style didn’t always match with the image the company was trying to push on his group.

“Yes, you’re good,” Yang started, “But you could be better. I haven’t forgotten about the dynamic you two once shared, nor have I forgotten about the others, and how they flourished under Hanbin-ssi’s leadership.”

“I—I’m not sure what you mean. I believe the group became much closer and more confident without the constant belittling.”

Yang hummed, as if he was actually taking Bobby’s feelings into consideration, “I see, I see. And you, Hanbin-ssi, what do you think of the matter?”

Hanbin knew better than to speak out of turn, but he also knew not to ignore Yang’s direct questions. Except he could barely think straight enough to really process the situation, let alone put together an answer good enough.

His silence was only taken with a glare and a sneer, neither of which had actually come from the CEO. “I understand that you left the group for a reason, B.I-ssi—”

The man was cut off by Bobby’s scoff, before the rapper was leveled with a glare.

“—But unless you’d rather stay as a producer, I fear for your future here as a soloist,” Yang continued, turning now to address both him and Bobby, “You are both lucky I’m even giving you this option. I should pull the plug on this entire group.”

“No!” Bobby jumped forward in his seat, “Please, Sir. You—You can’t. Please. We’ll do it.”

Hanbin stayed silent, watching the fire behind Yang’s eyes burn brighter. 

He won. 

“Excellent,” the man grinned, sharp and sneering and Hanbin felt nauseous, “I’m happy you are smart enough to see reason.” The smile fell, Yang tapping the tip of his pen against the desk. _Tap. Tap. Tap._ “You see, Bobby-ah, you are a good rapper.” _Tap. Tap. Tap._ “But you do not understand the levels at which you need to go, to make a song work for the other five members of your group, you see.” _Tap. Tap. Tap._ “And that, that is why you need B.I back.”

Bobby looked absolutely livid, Hanbin could see he was just barely keeping it inside. Yang Hyunsuk was like a vulture. Hanbin knew that better than anyone. 

“Hanbin-ah, I would like you to move back into the dorms, starting next week—”

“W-Wait! You can’t be serious?!” Bobby blurted before quickly covering his mouth with his hand. 

Yang barely acknowledged that motion, outside of narrowing his eyes, and continued, “As a trial run. I wouldn’t want to just…throw you to the wolves, as it would be.”

That’s exactly what he was doing. 

“I will also be tasking you with coming up with your new debut album, concept, choreography. Everything is on _your_ shoulders. If you fail, your contracts will be terminated,” Yang told them, “Since Bobby has recently gotten into an _altercation_ with his manager, I will be assigning a new one to your group shortly.”

He paused, as if he was letting them take everything in, before locking eyes with Bobby. 

“You have a week to clear out your studio. You will be moving to this building immediately. I believe it's best to keep you under the subsidiary label until I feel you have proven yourselves as a capable group. Hanbin, you’re expected to be fully situated with the others by the end of the month. I expect no more problems from you, or any of the others. Shin Yeonsan will be keeping a watchful eye on your group of misfits.”

Nausea. Rolling in his stomach and slamming into him in waves at the simple mention of a name. The same name that sat on the golden plate, glaring at him and reminding Hanbin of every time he’s been forced to kiss that damn plaque. Each and every time he’s been forced over that desk. 

“That is all. Do not disappoint me again.”

Bobby barely waited another breath before throwing himself from his chair to rush out. Hanbin couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t take his eyes away from his own shaking hands.

“Ah,” He heard Bobby pause, stumbling in his attempt at a quick exit, “Excuse me, Sir,” he said before rushing out.

“Well, that’s not a face I see very often.”

_No._

Hanbin was positive now that he was going to be sick.

“Now, now, Choi-ssi. I ask that you would please refrain from damaging any more of my charges,” Yang drawled, “It was bad enough when you decided to take _this_ one under your wing. But,” he sighed, pushing his chair back and standing up, “At least he is less rambunctious now. I’ll leave you to it.” The CEO turned to Hanbin, cold eyes sending a shiver down his spine, “B.I-ssi, may I suggest you do everything in your capability to avoid anymore negative attention from the media, or I may be forced to take a more… _drastic_ approach.” 

And he was gone.

Hanbin couldn’t bring himself to turn around, not to be faced with the dictator of his career, or the man that broke him.

Just as he lifted his head up, a heavy hand gripped his neck and pushed him forward, “Ahh, no need to look just yet, little Icarus.”

He wanted to push the hand away, scream out for him to _stop touching_ but he knew the more he fought back, the worse it would be. So he settled, and hated himself for it but years and years of conditioning would do that to a person.

Hanbin was used to hating himself.

“I see you’ve gotten too close to the sun again.” The words were breathed against the shell of his ear, accompanied by a hand snaking its way under Hanbin’s hoodie. “But how long can you survive the fire without your dear Apollo?”

That made him freeze completely, he wondered if the man truly knew what he was talking about or if he was just trying to work him up.

But Hanbin wouldn’t put it past him to know exactly what wounds he was poking. Both figuratively and literally. Nails dug into his hips, Hanbin winced as he felt old marks reopen and a trail of warm blood slide down.

“Not talking back today? Now, where’s the fun in that? I want to hear you.”

“I don’t—” Hanbin grit his teeth and bared his neck as his head was forced even farther forward, “Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”

Fingers gripped tight enough to leave bruises, “No, little Icarus. I want you to say my name.”

Hanbin shook his head, as much as he was able to with the white-knuckled hold on his throat. Using his name gave him a sense of humanity, maybe even a sense of morality, and Hanbin refused to give him that.

He was a monster. A tyrant.

“Tell me you want me.”

He bit his lip but it did little to hold back the dry laugh caught in his throat, though it wasn’t long before it tapered off into a breathy wince as his throat was squeezed, forcing him in a sobering silence.

Soon enough his cheek was being pressed against the smooth wood of the desk in front of him.

There was an art to falling to pieces, one Hanbin was comfortable with.

Bruised lips, blood under his fingernails along with a finality that came with watching yourself fragment. Break.

And break.

And breaking was something he could do well.

He could feel the broken pieces of himself shattered along the polished wood. Slipping through his fingers like smoke, like blood, dripping down and filling the cracks before cementing him in.

It helped when Hanbin tried to connect the jagged edges back together—the smoke, the blood—they helped him fuse together the pieces like wax. Just enough to hold until it was safe to break apart once again.

Hanbin survives.

Hanbin survives and that was enough for now, at least until the quiet of the night when he can’t get the bitter taste from his mouth or calm the tremor from traveling down the aching joints of his fingers.

“I’m going to clip your wings, little Icarus, before you even take flight. You won’t even get the chance to see the sun, let alone _touch it.”_

The chair behind him, that he had barely been in due to how far forward he was bent, was pulled from under him as he was sent crashing to the floor.

He felt his temple hit the edge of the desk as he bit his tongue but the pain was nothing compared to the feeling of fingers digging into his skin and hot breath brushing past his ear.

There was a body pressed over his own, caging him in and pushing him even farther down. All he could taste was blood and smoke.

“You are worth nothing, remember that. _Nothing.”_

Sometimes Hanbin thought his body suffered far more than his sanity, between the bruises and the burns, to the blood and spit that dripped down the corner of his lips as his mouth was forced open and used and used and _used._

But then he looked down at his trembling hands, one clawing at the carpet and the other pressed against it by a shiny, black dress shoe, and he realizes the reason he no longer felt anything was because he couldn’t.

Somewhere along the way he had lost a vital piece of himself, his own morality, burnt along the edges until it was charred all the way through and crumbling into nothing.

But, wouldn’t that make _him_ the monster?

“You’re so good to me.”

Hanbin had to resist the urge to sneer, to bite down on the sensitive skin between his teeth until the man before him was the one writhing in pain for once.

But he wasn’t stupid.

Last time he did that, he could barely see his own skin beyond the bruising, purples and yellows sinking into his very being like ink to paper and staining his vision long after they had faded.

“Say my name.”

Hanbin was gasping for breath as his head was pulled back, giving his aching jaw some reprieve but it wasn’t long until there was a different pain, the stinging reminder of a hand against his cheek before he was forced to look up.

“Say my name.”

He shook his head, bared his teeth.

_“Say it.”_

“Go fuck yourself.”

Was the new split in his lip worth it? Probably not, but the pain would serve as both a distraction and a reminder when he would wake up that night screaming.

“Have you forgotten whom it is you are speaking with?”

The fingers that had been grasping his jaw now took to prying his mouth open once more before he was gagging on the vile thing jammed against the back of his throat, nearly making him vomit.

He wished he could slap the hands away but could barely muster the willpower to glare at the man with all of the hatred and disgust he could manage.

Hanbin hated this man almost as much as he hated himself.

He gagged, glaring as much as he could with his mouth occupied as it was. His jaw would be hurting for the next few days, but pain was just physical and Hanbin knew physical pain never really lasted.

After a while, you just sort of become numb to it all.

He was held there even after the older man had finished, looking down at him mockingly, just to show Hanbin that _he_ was in charge. In control.

“Don’t be like that. Remember what I’m offering you.”

He winced as fingers squeezed more bruises into his throat but his eyes stayed dry. Hanbin wouldn’t let the tears fall until he was alone, after he managed to break the chains holding him back, after he found something to fill the hollowed-out, negative space made to contain pain and nothing else.

“Do you know how lucky you are? How much has been _fed_ to you with a silver spoon? We don’t let just anyone get to where you are. You should feel honored that you were chosen to be a lead producer on so many of the albums, don’t let them be tainted by your mistakes. Think about all the lives you would ruin.”

Hanbin was roughly pulled off and, before he even took the chance to breathe, spit in the man’s face, “I’m not the only one with a career that can be ruined,” he taunted, “Your life would be over if anyone found out about this.”

He regretted it as soon as he said it. Hanbin watched as Yeonsan’s entire demeanor shifted, the look in his eyes changing from powerstruck and arrogant to pure hatred as he lunged forward.

Too shocked to even react, Hanbin felt the side of his head hit the corner of the desk once more before all he could focus on was the hand closing around his throat and crushing his windpipe. He scratched, clawed at the man’s wrist but that did nothing but anger him more. Before he even knew what was happening, a strangled cry escaped his mouth as he was roughly yanked forward. Their faces were so close to touching, Hanbin could see the fear in his own eyes reflected back in the blackened pair before him.

For a long moment, Hanbin feared he may actually kill him. His attempts at struggling were growing weaker and weaker as his vision whited out at the corners. 

He had thought he wasn’t afraid of death, welcomed it, even, but now he feared the thought of crumbling by this man’s hands. 

This life was Hanbin’s, and only Hanbin’s to take.

If he was Icarus, then only the sun may lay claim to him, and not this man’s desperate attempt at being a king.

If he was Icarus, was he just following the motions in this labyrinth? Trapped in these walls, running from his own personal Minos? His own piece of hell?

“I will break you into pieces, _boy._ I will make sure you’re so deformed that you won’t even recognize your face. Do you hear me?” He seethed. 

It scared him, far more than anything else Hanbin could think of in that moment, and he was on the brink of just finally giving up because no amount of pulling or whining would make the grip loosen. 

Until it happened, and Hanbin’s head knocked against the floor yet again. The carpet offered enough cushion to keep him from seeing stars but it didn’t last as that _fucking shoe_ made contact with his already bruised temple. 

Hanbin scrambled towards the door as his chest heaved and his head throbbed. He had a feeling that the only reason he made it out was because he had been allowed to. There was no doubt in his mind that his life was expendable, and his resulting death would be a mere inconvenience.

He tried not to think about the revolting taste coating his insides, making him wish he could tear himself apart, piece by fucking piece, and take out every vile part of his being so he could burn it into nothingness.

He couldn’t do that—But he could rid himself of it another way. 

Hanbin slammed the bathroom door shut and gasped as air finally began filling his lungs again. His head spun and his stomach twisted uncomfortably, stopping him from being able to slow his erratic breathing. 

He vomited up bile and stomach acid and any trace of that man until there was nothing left and blood dotted the porcelain below him, feeling the thorns in his lungs tear him apart from the inside out.

* * *

♤♤♤

—

♧♧♧

* * *

“Hanbin’s back.”

Jinhwan stopped dead in his tracks, Bobby not even giving the shorter man a chance to ask him about the meeting before pushing past him.

“What do you mean?” Jinhwan turned to catch him, “What do you mean by back? Like—Like _back_ back?”

“Yes, Jinhwan. _Back_ back.” Bobby sat heavily on the couch, dropping his head into his hands with a frustrated sigh, “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. YG called me down there and shit on our past album, _just_ like I fucking said he would. And then fucking Hanbin…Hanbin just has the balls to stroll in late and then barely gets more than—than a slap on the wrist!” Bobby whipped his head back up, now finding a shocked Junhoe and Donghyuk standing just to the side. “And YG decides on the spot that putting him back in the group is the only way to ‘save’ it, when we don’t fucking even need saving! What do we fucking do? What do we _do?”_

“Why is that such an awful thing?” Chanwoo asked.

Bobby sighed again, but the sound came out as more of a groan than anything. Chanwoo’s question was a valid one. The youngest hadn’t been with them when Hanbin had, joining them in the months following—which hadn’t been easy for him, considering the entire group was still holding on to the animosity Hanbin had left behind.

“Hanbin was supposed to be the leader,” Yunhyeong explained, joining the semi-circle the others had made around Bobby and Jinhwan on the couch, “He _was_ the leader, actually, all through pre-debut. Up until we lost WIN, when he dropped from the group.”

“You mean when he dropped the group,” Jinhwan snorted, but it’s easy for Bobby to hear the sadness laced through the words, “He just stopped talking to us. It was impossible to get a hold of him, so we just stopped trying after a while.”

It was more than that. They all knew it, but Jinhwan didn’t bring up the fight that happened in the days leading up to his departure between them. Didn’t talk about the things Hanbin yelled throughout the dorm, or the things _Jinhwan_ said that were enough to shock even Junhoe. 

“It wasn’t by chance that we both ended up on Show Me The Money at the same time,” Bobby interjected, “But we still didn’t talk. I don’t think he even noticed I was there, honestly.” He hugged his knees to his chest, thinking about the angry look in the younger boy’s eyes every time Bobby looked over, seeing the hand patting his chest in an anxious manner, or the stormy glare he leveled at anyone that tried to talk with him. “That’s when the rumors started, and Hanbin didn’t make it to the next round. That was the last time I saw him.”

Other than hearing about him as a performer, Hanbin basically didn’t exist. He was known predominantly by his stage name, like _Hanbin_ was just a character he played before stripping himself of it to don a new role. 

For a while, Bobby had only heard about him through Minho, but eventually gave up when the older rapper became more and more closed off about it. 

Seeing Hanbin, after all this time, had felt surreal. Maybe, if circumstances had been different, Bobby could pretend that it was an amicable split between them, rather than what actually happened. 

He didn’t want to be hurt anymore. 

Bobby has never felt as betrayed in his life as he had in the days following Hanbin’s exit. 

He screamed and cried and called and called and _called,_ begging for something. Anything. Begging for a reason, an answer, something that could stop the pain in his chest whenever he saw the empty place in their home. 

“What’s he even like?” Chanwoo asked, “You guys have never really talked about him much before. I’ve only ever seen him from WIN, but I didn’t want to ask.”

He heard Yunhyeong sigh, felt Jinhwan tense up at his side. Bobby hoped one of the two would take the question, he didn’t really have it in him anymore. 

“Heartless,” Jinhwan bit out, “Just, be thankful you didn’t know him.”

“Ah, Jinhwan-hyung, please don’t be like that,” Yunhyeong tried, but they all knew he was preaching to a biased jury, “The circumstances had been…poor…and we don’t really know what his reasoning was.”

Bobby let out the breath he was holding, letting go of his knees and stretching them out in front of him, “He was sick of leading a pack of idiots. He left while he could to get famous as a soloist, but look how fucking far that had gotten him.”

Jinhwan nodded, “There’s no other reason for him leaving except that he just didn’t want to deal with us anymore. We weren’t good enough for his selfish ass, whatever. I stopped caring long ago. Whatever problem YG thinks he’s fixing by doing this, we’ll just have to show him that he’s wrong.”

“Like—Like make him leave the group again?” Chanwoo asked, mouth parted in shock. Jinhwan wasn’t the most docile person, but Bobby knew that Chanwoo hadn’t ever seen him truly angry. He envied the youngest, in a way. Chanwoo never had to go through what they did, barely trained for more than a few months by the time he was added into the group. 

Jinhwan shrugged, but the tension lining his shoulders was still painfully obvious, “Why not? It shouldn’t be that hard, considering he’s already willingly done it once. How much work would it be to do it again, just expediting the process.”

“Great idea. We can make a game of it—call it ‘Operation: _Zero KEMiSTRY’_ and act like secret agents,” Junhoe deadpanned, picking at his nails as he stared at Bobby, “That’s stupid. Why wouldn’t you just tell YG no?”

Bobby stared right back, mouth hanging open, absolutely _dumbfounded_ at Junhoe’s brashness, “Yah—You wanna fucking go down there and tell our CEO to ‘shove it’ right to his face?”

He could feet the heat rising up his neck, could feel the anger he had shoved away earlier ready to spill from his mouth. Dark, ugly words—Words that would be so easy to spit in Junhoe’s face, but Yunhyeong’s gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“We need to just accept it for what it is,” Yunhyeong reasoned, “It stands to reason that that YG-nim would go back on his decision if Hanbin really wasn’t a good fit, but I believe that should be something that is determined naturally, not by us _bullying_ him out.”

“B-Bullying?” Jinhwan snorted, “You think _we…_ could bully _him?_ Do you, like, not remember anything about him?”

Chanwoo opened his mouth again, seconds from asking another question before snapping it shut. Bobby didn’t blame him. Being on Jinhwan’s bad side was never good.

Bobby sighed as he stood up, “Whatever. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m just over this bullshit.”

He walked out of the room, ignoring the scattered mumbles and the panicked whispering behind him.

He was no leader. It wasn’t his job to stay back, console the others when he couldn’t even sort through the mess in his own head. He didn’t know what to think anymore. He didn’t know who to talk to. He had no doubt Hanbin was with Minho tonight.

That wasn’t something he thought about too often, usually keeping any and all thoughts of Hanbin as far away from his consciousness as he could. His name never came up in conversations, the closest thing to a _banned-subject_ they had, and any fan comments about the ex-leader were disregarding and ignored.

As far as he was concerned, Hanbin was never a part of the group. Hanbin wasn’t the person Bobby remembered from their trainee days, the one that laughed too loud when Jinhwan was scolding them, or shoved an entire slice of watermelon in his mouth to cheer Junhoe up when he was down.

Hanbin wasn’t the same person he was then.

But that was fine, because neither was Bobby.

He couldn’t imagine a world in which this could work out. He couldn’t even imagine a world in which Hanbin had never left, had stayed with them and continued dancing with them, laughing with them. Writing with Bobby. 

Loving.

Loving Bobby.

A life in which Hanbin had never left him, and maybe they’d still be together. They would have made it through debut together, they would have achieved their dream. Together. Maybe, with Hanbin with them, KEMiSTRY could have taken the world by storm, just like Bobby knew they could have.

But this wasn’t the same Hanbin. This was uncharted territory, unmapped terrain that Bobby didn’t know where to start with, let alone where to go.

Seeing him today, after so long, had Bobby’s mind reeling. It wasn’t Hanbin, not the one he knew. It was the Hanbin he’s seen in the tabloids, the one out drinking with Jaewon and Mino, the one caught being escorted from bars in the disconnected hours of the night.

It was the Hanbin with empty eyes and an empty voice, devoid of everything Bobby had fallen in love with all those years ago. He was everything Bobby had grown to hate.

He was exhausted. Bobby was exhausted. He was sick of writing music the company hated, music that the others struggled to fit into, music that the fans struggled to like.

He was sick of having that weight on his shoulders and his alone, even with Donghyuk and Junhoe trying _so_ hard to help as much as they could with writing. Their styles just didn’t mesh well with Bobby’s, and that was starting to become a problem.

Too many problems. Too many problems he struggled to keep up with.

Later that night, he heard Chanwoo asking Yunhyeong again about what he thought of their old leader, if he really was as bad as they said. 

Yunhyeong only replied, “Those called _heartless,_ once cared too much,” before ushering the youngest off to bed. 

It took several hours for Bobby to fall asleep after that. Thinking of purple flowers and mismatched shoes.

* * *

♧♧♧

* * *

_  
Icarus flew too close to the sun,_

_but at least he flew._

* * *

♤♤♤

* * *

Disgusting. 

He was disgusting. 

_Vile. Dirty. Broken._

Had there ever been a time when he could meet his own eyes in the mirror without seeing someone empty, someone that’s lost their will to even just _live_ , staring back? 

Hanbin honestly couldn’t remember. This was familiar, the jagged gaze looked so comfortable on his face that Hanbin almost couldn’t recall what smiling felt like. 

Which couldn’t be right, he smiled just a few weeks ago, the last time he saw Hanbyul. But maybe that’s because it was mostly for her sake, and felt like a grimace more than anything to him. 

There was a chain of bruises around his throat. Shackles holding him in this fucking prison. Claiming him as that man’s _bitch._

Was this what he deserved? Was he too fucked to pray to whatever god people were always talking about? Past any point of salvation?

Was there truly no hope for him anymore?

Was it his fault his tale was so steeped in tragedy? Is this just the way he’s written his life?

Hanbin was honestly disgusted with himself, he truly did not know where he had gone wrong, or if he'd ever been _right._

He didn’t know anymore, he didn’t know anything anymore. Didn’t know if any of it was even worth it, now.

Every thought felt like a battle and every breath was a war. Hanbin was just tired of fighting. 

_‘You are what I’ve made you, nothing more.’_

The smug, condescending voice echoed off each of the walls around him, shattering his psyche within fucking seconds as Hanbin dropped to his knees against the mirror. He groaned at the feeling of every burn and bruise throbbing in time with his head.

His mouth was dry. Throat feeling raw and torn from his screaming, from the hands he could still feel trying to rip him apart. Piece by piece. 

Seeing Bobby had only worsened that, left Hanbin floundering and in the completely wrong headspace to deal with Yeonsan and what had followed.

He still hadn’t taken the time to process what exactly Yang had called him for. 

The idea of seeing the others again, after so long, after he had failed them like he had, made Hanbin’s stomach twist in displeasure. 

Realistically, he knew he had no right to be bitter at anyone but himself, as it was his own mistakes that landed him here and he’s accepted that. But, there will always be a part of him that loathes the others, knowing that they’ve fixed the hole Hanbin left.

He had no right, absolutely none, but he couldn't help the hollow feeling that settled in his chest. They shouldn’t forgive him. What he did was shitty and abhorrent, but he’s done so much shitty stuff in his life since then that it’s hard fixating on—Not when everyone has done something shitty. So, why was he always the villain?

It shouldn’t matter, not anymore. 

It’s been years and Hanbin’s been on his own path for longer than he led theirs. He shouldn’t care about this. They’re practically strangers but all Hanbin could think about was how Bobby’s body felt pressed against his, how his breath tickled against the back of his neck. His lips. Everywhere.

He didn’t want to think. He didn’t like thinking. Thinking means remembering and there’s a lot of things Hanbin didn’t want to remember.

The nightmares were bad enough.

Hanbin didn’t want to remember.

But now, now he’s being reminded that he wasn’t good enough. Not good enough to be a soloist, not enough for the group he left. Just. Never. Enough.

He couldn’t stop until he was.

Lifting a shaky hand from where it was pressed against the bruises painting his throat, Hanbin dragged his finger across the mirror, cutting lines through the fog breathed over it. He let the heart stain it for another few heaving breaths before pressing his palm over it and pulling down.

Hanbin was a perfectionist by nature. 

His heart beat in time with the music he made, the music was his heart beat. It was him. 

So not being able to convey that to others, why he needed it to be perfect, wouldn’t stop until it was, it was frustrating. 

“Hanbin, you’ve been at it since lunch—Which you skipped, by the way,” Minho scolded, “You can’t keep dancing until you drop.”

“Watch me.”

The song restarted and Hanbin counted the beats. 

It wasn’t a punishment, wasn’t some self-flagellation like Minho had called it. It was just Hanbin wanting, _needing_ to better himself.

And maybe the burn in his muscles motivated him, and maybe he liked it. Waking up every morning with a physical pain to distract him from everything.

Hanbin knew his stamina was good enough for at least another two hours. Another 120 minutes. Another 7,200 seconds. 

He wasn’t about to lose the time he had put into this just because he was tired. Hanbin’s been tired before, he’s been exhausted to the point of hospitalization. This was nothing. _He_ was nothing. He needed to be something. 

Minho’s voice echoed through his ears again, breaking through his counts and completely shattering his focus. 

And then it was silent. 

The song ended. 

It would replay in 19 seconds. 

_18._

_17._

“Hanbin—”

“What don’t you fucking understand?!” Hanbin shouted, breathless and tired but so fucking frustrated. Everything felt like it was moving too slowly, but somehow too fast and Hanbin couldn’t keep up. 

_14._

“This isn’t healthy.”

_13._

If anything, that enraged Hanbin more. There were so many things he’d rather be doing, so many other ways he could hurt himself, but he wasn’t. This wasn’t something painful, this was something he needed. 

And Minho couldn’t take that away. Not this. Not when it was all he had left. 

_9._

It was almost as if he could feel his body giving up on him. Purely angry because it was the last thing keeping him standing. 

_8._

His legs felt numb. His body felt disconnected.

_7._

“What right do you have to—”

His words slurred, mouth suddenly not cooperating. 

No, not suddenly. Hanbin knew it was going to happen before it did, he had just ignored it. Pushed past it.

There was a ringing in his ears that sounded exactly like the fire alarm did, his lungs already felt seconds from collapsing from the amount of strain he had put them through. 

_5._

_4._

_3._

“Hanbin,” Minho’s voice cut through again, “Let’s sit down, okay?”

The song replayed, Hanbin’s body moving on muscle memory alone until he stumbled, almost sending him crashing to the ground had it not been for Minho. 

The tempo of the song matched the pounding of his heart, the pounding of his head. The ringing only got louder, completely drowning out the other voice in the room as Hanbin felt the black fade into the corners of his vision. 

The shaking hands stayed pressed against his cheek, but Hanbin was too tired to think about the owner. He knew Jiwon’s hands shook when he got excited, but Hanbin didn’t understand why Jiwon would be excited now, of all times. 

Or maybe Hanbin was in the wrong. Maybe Hanbin should be so excited his hands shook, instead of the constant tremble from poorly concealed anger. 

“Come on, Hanbin. Wake up.”

That wasn’t Jiwon’s voice. Wasn’t gravely enough. Too shaky. 

Just like his hands. 

Minho’s hands shook too often. Too often because of Hanbin. Minho didn’t need that worry. 

“Get up. Please.”

Hanbin knew he couldn’t if he wanted to. He wasn’t unconscious, but knew he couldn’t get up even if he tried. He didn’t want to try. Hanbin was tired of trying. 

Minho was still talking to him, but the words were fuzzy, mostly drowned out by the sound of the blood rushing to his head. “You with me, Bin?” He asked, letting the back of his hand press against the burning of Hanbin’s cheek for a blissfully cool second. 

Hanbin nodded. He had heard that. Maybe he just needed to rest for a minute. He was fine. He was fine. 

Minho breathed out, slow and shaky and pained, “Of course you’re fine. You’re always fine.”

Except trying to open his eyes left a wave of nausea to slam into him full force, leaving him feeling even dizzier and more disoriented than before. 

God, he really didn’t feel well. 

“Think you can get up?” Minho asked as air was being fanned at Hanbin’s face, “Or do you want to lay on the nasty floor for a while?”

Even with his jaw clamped shut to keep himself from throwing up, Hanbin choked out a laugh at Minho’s attempt to lighten the mood, but still didn’t answer, didn’t move. Didn’t want to move, didn’t know if he could, at that moment. So he waited there, and Minho waited with him. Hanbin’s eyes stayed shut and Minho’s hands continued to shake. 

He didn’t know how long it took until the heaving of his chest was at a reasonable pace, the weight slightly lighter on his lungs. Hanbin knew he should go back to the hospital to get them rechecked, but he just didn’t have the motivation. 

Maybe Minho would make him, after this. He hoped Minho wouldn’t care enough. 

“Come on, kid. I said no more dancing ‘til you drop.”

“Yeah,” Hanbin weakly replied, “And I said—”

“I know what you said.”

Unlike their words, Hanbin waited another few minutes, another 253 seconds, before taking the chance of opening his eyes again. Waiting. 

Sometime after Hanbin had fallen, Minho must have shut the replay down on the track, leaving the room almost silent save for both of their labored breathing. 

He wouldn’t be surprised if he shocked Minho into an anxiety attack—wouldn’t be the first time, and Hanbin doubted it would be the last. 

Time and time again he had told Minho that he was toxic, too unstable to keep around, but Minho was convinced he loved Hanbin—That he was in love with Hanbin. 

Minho wasn’t, Hanbin knew Minho wasn’t in love with him. Minho loved the idea of him. Minho loved what Hanbin pretended to be. 

Just like Jiwon. 

But—

Minho was the only one that knew every dirty, dark thing Hanbin tried to hide about himself, every skeleton locked up in his closet. 

Minho was one of them. 

Just like Jiwon. 

“Hanbin, talk to me,” Minho practically begged him, “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“Minho—” Hanbin sighed, turning onto his side and wincing when the hardwood floors pressed unpleasantly against the open wounds on his hips, “I don’t want to talk right now.”

Minho listened, dropping the topic and focusing on helping Hanbin back up. They ended up on Minho’s motorcycle, the short drive to Hanbin’s apartment passing in silence. Hanbin’s arms wrapped tightly around Minho’s waist, and face pressed into the elder’s back in an effort to push the nausea away.

He could still feel Minho shaking, minute trembles running through the tense muscles of the rapper’s body. It was his fault, it was usually his fault, so Hanbin couldn’t find it in himself to feel remorseful. He told Minho it wasn’t worth it— _he_ wasn’t worth it—but still, Minho never listened. 

By the time they made it to Hanbin’s apartment, barely anything more than a barren one-bedroom, filled with nothing but empty melodies and empty lighters, Minho’s breathing had finally evened out. Hanbin’s hadn’t.

“I need a smoke,” Hanbin muttered. He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to remember where it was he had thrown the pack of cigarettes he had bought earlier that morning.

Minho didn’t say anything, only held out the new pack for Hanbin to take with trembling hands. “You left them in my jacket.”

“Thanks.”

Hanbin fumbled to grip the lighter steady enough to spark it, taking several attempts before he was able to get it, but not before taking another cigarette to flip it upside down.

He handed the lighter to Minho, watching the taller man pull a cigarette from his own pack before lighting it and passing the white plastic back, “I don’t understand how you can smoke menthols. Just like I don’t understand your incessant need to destroy yourself.”

“Tch,” Hanbin scoffed, “Don’t understand? Please. Would have thought you’d understand it better than anyone.”

Looking out over the balcony, Hanbin couldn’t help but feel the familiar sense of helplessness crowd him. Watching the lights flicker on and off, millions of them. One by one.

“It’s late,” Minho said, as if Hanbin couldn’t tell, “Up for a drink?”

“I can’t really afford to be hungover tomorrow,” Hanbin muttered, but they both knew it was an empty concern. Hungover or not, Hanbin was going to find himself back at his studio tomorrow morning, counting down his minutes of freedom with the ambiance of pen scratches and the humming of his monitor.

They headed back inside, Minho taking no time at all before making his way to the liquor cabinet, pulling out a bottle of his favorite whiskey and two glasses before walking back to set them directly in front of Hanbin. 

The seconds between the glasses clinking against the table and Hanbin downing the whiskey that had been pressed against his palm disappeared. Hazed over like a foggy mirror. Hanbin wished it would just shatter. 

They drank and they drank—Until the room began to spin and Hanbin began to smile. Swallowing the whiskey and the ash until he could no longer taste blood and bile lining his mouth. They drank until Yang’s words had all but faded out and Yeonsan’s fingers could no longer be felt pressing bruises into his hips. 

He’d rather it were Minho’s fingers leaving those bruises, so Hanbin wasted no time before taking the glass from the other rapper’s hand and then he was nearly climbing on top of him to press their lips together in a wet, desperate kiss. Minho’s palms found their place, sitting just under the curve of Hanbin’s waist.

The vice grip on his lungs worsened slightly with every swipe of Minho’s tongue, every clash of their teeth, causing Hanbin to let out a sigh as Minho’s physical grip tightened along with it. 

“Min,” he breathed out, carding his fingers through unruly hair to tighten in the strands, “You can’t leave marks.”

As if to spite him, Minho nibbled lightly at Hanbin’s ear before pressing a kiss to his jaw. “There’s a lot of things we shouldn’t do, but when has that stopped us?” Minho’s voice was husky and wrecked from earlier that day, but the gravely tone only made Hanbin think of Jiwon.

He didn’t want to think about him, not now. Not ever. Hanbin didn’t want to think anymore. His shirt was discarded within seconds, sending shocks of electricity through his veins as Minho traced, touched, tasted every inch of Hanbin’s exposed skin.

Another bite turned into another hickey being sucked into his shoulder, making Hanbin wince at the pressure. He pushed Minho’s head down slightly, a silent plea for him to bite down harder. He wanted it to hurt. If he was going to be left with even more reminders of his mistakes maring his skin, he was going to make sure he felt them. 

There was no worse feeling than being a stranger to your own body, claustrophobic in your own skin. Hanbin was tired of losing seconds, minutes, hours, days— lost in his own fucking head. The pain helped. It was grounding. 

Yet he couldn’t help but wish sex didn’t have to hurt. 

He knew what him and Minho did wasn’t normal, wasn’t okay for either of them, but they couldn’t stop. 

Minho was addicted to Hanbin. 

And Hanbin was addicted to the pain. 

“I love you,” Minho whispered against the bruises forming around Hanbin’s neck, “I wish I could kill that bastard for hurting you like this.”

“Not now,” Hanbin couldn’t help but plead, trembling lips barely able to get the words out before he had to press them shut, tucking his face into the crook of Minho’s neck with a shaky exhale, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Minho shook his head, “Please, Hanbin. Say the name—Say the name and they’re gone. I’ll—I’ll do everything in my power to get them out, Bin. The CEO owes me a favor—”

_“Minho,”_ Hanbin snapped, “Drop. It.”

He pushed himself up from Minho’s lap, ignoring the blanket of wooziness that the alcohol had draped over him in favor of stalking back out to the balcony to grab the pack of cigarettes again.

He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about it. About why there was a crown of thorns around his head and a necklace of burgundy hanging from his throat. Or why Minho had a favor from YG in the first place.

Hanbin didn’t want to think anymore.

Just as he lit the end of his second, he felt Minho press up behind him, placing an apologetic kiss just below Hanbin’s ear, and then another one at the nape of his neck. A drag of teeth scraping down his shoulder.

A shiver ran down his back. He was still shirtless, standing on his balcony with his label-mate curled around his back, sucking bruises over pre existing ones in the dark of the night.

Even more lights were out than before, dimming the world in front of them just that little bit more, just enough to make Hanbin feel invisible. Like a shadow in the night.

“I’m sorry,” Minho whispered, “I just don’t like seeing you hurting like this.” 

The words caught in his throat, Hanbin could barely breathe around them. He didn’t know if he’d been breathing at all. He could still feel the hands around his throat. The press of his cheek against the smooth wood, the carpet. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to think.

“I don’t mind it when it’s _you_ making me hurt,” Hanbin said, ashing his cigarette against the counter before turning in Minho’s arms, “I want you to hurt me. You make it feel good, hyung.”

He could feel Minho’s breath hitch. Hanbin had abandoned honorifics after the first time they hooked up, now only using them to get Minho’s mind away from asking questions that Hanbin couldn’t answer.

“That’s all I want.”

Sweat was still thinly coating their bodies, bruises painted around hips and along collarbones, lines left dug into the inked skin of Minho’s back from Hanbin’s nails.

Minho had asked him, barely giving Hanbin a second to catch his breath after, if he could turn Hanbin’s body into his canvas.

“You’re a work of art,” Minho whispered, laying out the paints Hanbin kept around just for him, “I just wish you could see that.”

Hanbin let the older boy press him back against the throw blanket, Minho leaning forward to slot their lips together before Hanbin could even think to argue.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Minho, stop,” Hanbin gasped, making Minho giggle at the younger boy’s breathless tone, “I’m too drunk to get hard again.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that wasn’t my goal.” Minho laughed, gathering some paint on his brush as he braced a warm hand against Hanbin’s chest, “But, just so you know. I am still up for a second round.”

Hanbin snorted, but it was quickly cut by a shocked intake of breath as Minho pressed the cold paint into his skin. Goosebumps sprouted over his arms, a chill wracking his frame as the paint was spread.

“Thanks for the warning,” he muttered, but lifting his head up brought the sight of a shock of green snaking down the center of his chest. “Green?”

“Yeah,” Minho gave him that soft smile—the one that didn’t match his strong eyebrows or inked body and made Hanbin’s chest hurt, “What’s your favorite flower?”

“Hyacinths.”

Minho hummed, “That’s a very _you_ answer.”

“What about you?” Hanbin turned the question back on him, “What’s your favorite?”

Minho took a second to think of his response, mulling the question over as he made another stroke before sitting back on his heels to view what he had so far. “I don’t really know a lot about flowers. But maybe dahlias? If I had to pick one.”

Hanbin let his eyes fall shut as his body trembled under the elder’s gaze. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Minho paused to take another drag of the blunt held between his fingers, coughing as he passed it to the other man, “Dunno. They remind me of you.”

“Tch,” Hanbin snorted, “They shouldn’t.” He coughed out as the smoke burned his throat, nearly dropping the stick before Minho could take it back. 

He shouldn’t be doing this—smoking with Minho as they lie sprawled and naked on the floor of his apartment, with the wind blowing the curtains past the open balcony doors—but Hanbin was never known for making good decisions, was he? No. He wasn’t.

“Why is that? What do they mean?”

“Dignity. Strength. Elegance.”

Minho shot him a searching look, “I don’t understand why you’re so hard on yourself.”

“Min—” Hanbin sighed, but he was unable to continue before the elder began speaking again. 

“No. I know, I know. I…I get it, but that doesn’t mean I like watching you destroy yourself,” He mumbled as he traced his fingers along the raised lines following Hanbin’s ribs, “I don’t want to see you hurt yourself like this. It…It hurts me too, alright?”

The fingers never pause in their journey along the scars, almost as though Minho was trying to decode them. 

Except he didn’t have to. 

Not when they were echoed in the faded white lining the inside of the taller man’s arms, hidden by ink to the naked eye, but Hanbin knew what to look for. 

Even without knowing the reason behind the action, since Minho never talked about it. Ever. ‘There’s no point in sharing scars to prove it,’ he had said once, ‘The past is in the past.’

Hanbin wished he was naïve enough to think that. 

But he couldn’t, not when his past seemed to be creeping on him once again. 

That night, when he fell asleep, he dreamed in memories. The feeling of the sun surrounding him. 

Until, inevitably, he got too close and was left plunging into the flames.

The sun wasn’t for him to touch, to love, to see. Because all it did was make the empty space of everything else he couldn’t—would never—deserve, feel even colder.

* * *

♤♤♤

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love minho he's my favorite character oops

**Author's Note:**

> congrats, you made it to the end
> 
> follow me on Twitter [@MVforVictory](https://twitter.com/MVforVictory) and yell at me


End file.
